Soaring High With Blood-Stained Wings
by Alexia Blackbriar
Summary: S3 AU. Sherlock died when he jumped off of St. Bart's. Except nobody knew he had an archangel as his guardian. Sherlock has returned, except now he has massive black wings and his soul has been turned into Grace. Sherlock Holmes is an angel. How will John, Mary, Molly and Lestrade react now the stakes have changed? Every S3 Ep except Sherlock is an angel. Disclaimer; please review!
1. Chapter 1 - Shining Grace

AN I know I really shouldn't be starting a new story but the plot bunnies were attacking me and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote this.

I've written a second chapter but please review if you think I should continue. It's a season 3 AU and I'm planning to go all the way through while adding extra cases as well. I'd love to hear suggestions for the extra cases as well. Thanks.

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><p>Sherlock jumped. The wind rushed through his dark locks and his coat caught the downward breeze making it flap like a pair of wings. He heard John scream his name. It was all too quick, too fast to deduce. As Sherlock fell he remembered Moriarty's words. Sherlock had claimed to be on the side of angels. Moriarty had not known how accurate he had been.<p>

Overwhelming light blinded his eyes as Sherlock suddenly appeared in a lush green garden. There were orchids and roses and tulips and bluebells and lilies and - STOP! There was too much. Too much information overloading his Mind Palace, the bright smells and colours intruding into his thoughts.

Then -

"Hello, Sherlock."

He turned. It was a man, tall with sandy brown hair. He had piercing silver eyes and wore a white suit. Pure white wings hung majestically from his shoulder blades, each feather shining with barely contained Grace and power. They had a magnificent wingspan of four metres - no, four point two, Sherlock noted.

"Michael," Sherlock replied shortly.

The archangel bowed his head in acknowledgement, his wings stretching out slightly and giving one wild erratic flap while he smiled warmly at the detective. Sherlock glanced around at the garden once more before resting his hands in his signature Belstaff, gazing at the archangel.

"I wasn't sure you'd agree to my terms," Sherlock told Michael coldly. "You did not reply to my last prayer."

Michael smiled and answered apologetically, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm a busy man. I receive over seventeen point four million prayers a day. It takes quite a filing system to get them sorted."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

Michael's smile dropped and he regarded Sherlock worriedly. "Are you sure you want to return, Sherlock? Your heaven is waiting upstairs for you. Nobody would judge you if seeked eternal salvation. You did just jump off a building after all."

"I had to," Sherlock informed him. "If I hadn't, John would have died. Better I be dead than him."

"He wishes he was dead right now," Michael told him quietly. "He's praying for you."

Oh god oh god oh god oh god sweet Jesus NO NO NO NO SHERLOCK NO OH GOD SHERLOCK NO PLEASE NO you can't be dead please don't don't don't don't please no god no please don't be dead Sherlock no no SHERLOCK SHERLOCK NO NO PLEASE BE ALIVE NO NO DON'T BE DEAD SHERLOCK NO NO OH GOD OH GOD NO...

The sobbing mental voice was projected through the room and Sherlock closed his eyes, pained. Michael watched him calmly before waving the voice away and it faded into the bright light and beautiful flowers.

"What do I do?" Sherlock eventually asked in a strangled voice. "Mycroft and Molly, they have my corpse."

"You told them you would survive," Michael remembered. "You said that when your body was taken in, you would live."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And I did not."

Michael looked around the garden cautiously before stepping closer and telling Sherlock quietly, "Look, Sherlock, as head archangel I can do stuff. I'm technically allowed to do whatever I want, leader of heavenly host and all."

"What are you suggesting?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Sherlock, if I accepted your soul into our ranks you would be able to be stationed back on Earth and live again."

"You mean...become...an angel."

"Yes," Michael agreed.

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "You want me as an angel." When the archangel nodded the detective snorted and turned away. "You're completely insane. I am not worthy to become an angel."

Michael smiled at him gently before laying a hand on his charge's shoulder. "Let me tell you something Sherlock. I have met and seen over ninety three thousand and fifty seven billion souls accepted into Heaven. Some are Christian. Some are not. Some are heroes and some are cowards. Sherlock Holmes, you are more than worthy of our ranks. You are courageous, clever and you sacrificed yourself to save three of your closest friends and you did it without a moment's hesitation. Now that - that is bravery. So Sherlock Holmes, it would be an absolute honour to accept your soul into Heaven's Host."

"What would happen if I said yes?" Sherlock questioned cautiously.

"I would replace your soul with holy Grace. You would memorise thirty thousand scriptures. You would be in service to me. You would be in service to God. And with your Grace shall come your wings and you shall be gifted with flight." Michael stated this as if it was rehearsed and said it firmly and without hesitation. Then he softened and said, "And in your service to me I would place you down on Earth in the Christian country of England and you would live amongst humans and there you would fight and condemn all who threaten Faith."

"How soon could I get back?" Sherlock eventually asked.

"Today if I gifted you with Grace. You would become a lower Seraph immediately and be given passage out of the Northern gates down unto the Earth. And on the winds of ice and fire you will ride down to England and your wings shall be blessed with English Faith."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snapping, "Shut up, Michael, you sound like you're reciting from scripture."

"I am," Michael replied and he pulled out from his suit pocket an old parchment. "From Heaven's scribe himself, Metatron. He writes the word of God. And this is God's will."

Sherlock hesitated before asking, to confirm, "I'll see John again?"

"Of course."

"Then I say yes."

Michael grinned and placed one hand on Sherlock's forehead. Immediately Sherlock felt his insides burst into flame. A searing burning heat clawed at his heart and burned with the light of a thousand suns. Yet the heat did not hurt. It was warm and fresh and lovely like a summer breeze and hot water bottles and beautiful tea. When Sherlock looked up again, his senses were even more heightened than usual and he felt two extra limbs. He lifted his wings and spread them out and the archangel stared in awe at the majestic black wings stretched out into the sky before him. The feathers shone and shimmered nightingale blue in the light of Sherlock's Grace.

Michael had seen many angel wings in his time, yet Sherlock's had to be one of the most magnificent pair he had ever seen. They were almost as large as his own, but were sleek and built for a warrior. While Michael's wings were meant for intimidation and leadership, Sherlock's wings were meant for stealth and speed.

"How do you feel?" Michael questioned his newest angel.

Sherlock turned to him and replied, "Impossible."

Michael laughed and Sherlock, now able to hear his real voice, heard bells chime in time. "Well, brother, your vessel lies below on Earth. It is time for you to go to duty."

"Yes, brother," Sherlock replied, "And I am extremely grateful, Michael. I cannot thank you enough."

Sherlock turned to where the Northern gates stood in the distance and was about to take flight, but Michael grabbed his sleeve. When he glanced about, he saw the unreadable emotion in the archangel's eyes.

"Sherlock. Be warned, you can be recalled back to Heaven for duty. Just because I have stationed you on Earth does not mean you are there to stay. The Revelations approach and Raphael is restless. Have caution, brother."

Sherlock dipped his head before taking flight. He was returning to Earth.

...

Mycroft sat silently in his office, head in his hands. He had recently received the news about his little brother's swam dive off St. Bart's. It pained him and tore at his heart because it was his fault. It was his fault Moriarty had destroyed Sherlock's life. Now his little brother was dead. Sherlock had been moved from St. Bart's morgue to their family estate and was lying motionlessly in his childhood room. Molly Hooper had completed all the autopsy forms and reports for Mycroft and left the estate soon after, tears in her eyes

Mycroft could not understand Sherlock's message. Before his jump, Sherlock had sent him a text, just one word in capitals - 'ARCHANGEL'. The message did not make any sense. What did archangel mean? There was no code in the text, he was sure of it. And apparently Sherlock had told Molly Hooper very surely beforehand that he would survive the jump.

Mycroft sighed and stood, pouring another glass of his favourite whiskey and sighing, leaning back with one hand on his desk. His office door opened. The elder Holmes looked up then dropped his glass. Shards shattered on the wooden flooring. The golden alcohol pooled at his feet.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock greeted him cheerily, flexing his wings. "Now, let's get down to business."

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><p><strong>AN Thank you so much for reading. It's my birthday as well today so if I could get ten reviews or more it would be my perfect present.<strong>

**Please Review! Should I continue this?**


	2. Chapter 2 - Broken Feathers

**AN: Hey guys. I know I should be updating other stories but positive response from this made the plot bunnies excited. 'Hint hint'**

**Please review at the end. It really helps With depression and GCSEs.**

...

Sherlock wheezed for breath, his long straggly hair hanging down the front of his face as he slumped as far forward as he could, exhausted and limp, hanging from the chains carved with Enochian symbols binding his power. His wings, being held on a separate dimension plane to avoid getting them injured, were no help. Trapped in a ring of holy fire, the angel was powerless. He was practically human. A Serbian torturer danced around him, punching and slicing and cutting, causing pain to shoot down Sherlock's nerves.

"You broke in here for a reason," the torturer snarled.

He picked up a large metal pipe and walked towards his prisoner threateningly. Sherlock flinched violently, trembling. This man, this Serbian, had been warned. Somebody had warned him that the angel was coming and he had prepared. After Sherlock had killed Sebastian Moran, word had probably spread around the web speaking of the angel Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's Grace ached, but he did not speak.

"Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?"

Sherlock remembered sleep. Back when he was human, that was. As an angel, he didn't need sleep, or food. But his vessel and Grace were exhausted and he needed rest. He weakly shook his head at the torturer. The Serbian drew back the pipe over his shoulder and prepared to strike the prisoner. Sherlock flinched.

Quickly, he whispered, "You...used to work in the navy...where you had a love affair...that was unhappy..."

"What?"

The torturer leant down and Sherlock exhaustedly repeated the deduction. The Serbian man started in astonishment.

The soldier standing by the door asked, "Well? What did he say?.

Straightening up and releasing the prisoner's head, the torturer looked down at Sherlock in puzzlement. "He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair." Sherlock continued weakly, and the torturer relayed the deduction to the soldier. "... that the electricity isn't working in my bathroom; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour!"

He reached down and pulled Sherlock's head up by the hair again, and the angel grunted painfully, while the Serbian demanded to know who. The prisoner replied briefly and the man released his head. Sherlock dropped down and sighed in relief.

"The coffin maker!" The Serbian growled.

Once again he bent to the prisoner, demanding more. Sherlock responded in a clipped and pained whisper. As he told the torturer his information, the Serbian snarled in rage

"If I go home now, I'll catch them at it!" The Serbian shouted angrily. "I knew it! I knew there was something going on!"

Furiously, the torturer stormed out of the room, leaving Sherlock slumped in his chains. He sighed in relief and tiredness, and finally able to free himself, the two dimensions blurred and Sherlock's wings appeared. The black appendages hung limply from his torn and staining back, the feathers rustling and trembling.

The soldier left in the room did not appear shocked though. "So, my friend. Now it's just you and me." He dropped his feet off the table and stood up. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you, blud."

He surged across the room to Sherlock, whose back was covered in blood and wounds from his beating. The soldier grabbed a handful of the Sherlock's hair and yanked his head up a little. Sherlock moaned quietly in pain and flinched away, wings shaking from exertion.

Leaning close to Sherlock's ear, the soldier whispered urgently, "Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."

Finally, he released the prisoner's head and straightened up. Sherlock grunted but felt relief surge through him. Mycroft Holmes. His brother was here, and was saving him. Mycroft was now unlocking the Enochian chains and Sherlock gasped as he felt his Grace burning now and he shuddered as his powers were returned and freed. He experimentally flexed his wings. Powerful muscles rippled and Grace flowed through his veins like adrenalin. He felt alive again.

Mycroft grinned gently at his brother. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.

And after two years of fighting and fleeing, of spreading his wings and taking to the air to hunt down Moriarty's network, Sherlock felt hopeful. Because Baker Street meant Doctor John Watson.

Sherlock smiled.

...

Sherlock lay on his back on a barber's chair, wings splayed out underneath him and onto the floor, fiddling with the front page of a newspaper that read 'SKELETON MYSTERY'. He felt relatively safe in Mycroft's office, but really he was just relieved to be back in England. He lowered the newspaper to glance towards his brother, twitching his primary feathers.

Seated behind his desk and thoroughly reading a file, Mycroft commented dryly, "You have been busy, haven't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed the newspaper onto a nearby trolley. His hair was wet and back to his usual length. His back, still painful from the beatings, was now almost completely healed after four hours of his Grace running freely inside of him.

Mycroft chuckled. "Quite the busy little bee."

Sherlock sighed, flexing his shoulder blades. "Moriarty's network – took me two years to dismantle it. Flights all around the world, infiltrating companies and shutting down estates and accounts; it's finally all over. The whole web has been properly dismantled now."

The elder Holmes turned to him seriously. "And you're confident there are no remains?"

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft smirked, looking down at the files once again, shifting in his seat. "Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."

Realising his brother was mocking him, Sherlock snarled back, "Colossal."

Mycroft smiled to himself, shutting the file and informing him, "Anyway, you're safe now."

The angel glanced about him cautiously. It wasn't that he didn't 'trust' his brother, bit he did not trust the British government one bit. Sherlock only replied with, "Hmm."

Mycroft's smile fell and he glared at Sherlock, folding his arms. "A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

Sherlock grunted, "What for?"

Mycroft scowled. "For wading in."

Furious, Sherlock raised a hand to the barber to make him stop shaving him. The man stepped back a little as Sherlock rolled uncomfortably, his position putting pressure on his wings. His feathers were ruffled slightly so he reached out to smooth them down.

"In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu," Mycroft grimaced, glowering at his younger brother.

Snarling in pain, Sherlock heaved himself up and stared at his brother, enraged. He flared his wings defensively and Mycroft gazed at them warily. "'Wading in'?" the angel growled. "You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp while my Grace was suppressed!"

Mycroft frowned indignantly. "I got you out!"

"No – I got me out. I got us both out. We would still be in Serbia if I couldn't fly. Why didn't you intervene sooner?" His arms shook slightly as he tried to push himself up, folding his wings in again against his back.

Mycroft looked angry at his younger brother's outburst. "Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You were enjoying it," he accused.

Affronted, Mycroft hissed, "Nonsense."

Sherlock snorted. "Definitely enjoying it."

Mycroft leant forwards, eyes glittering. "Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover', smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise; the people?" He said the last word in disdain, like it tasted wrong in his mouth.

The elder Holmes sat back, glancing away angrily. Sherlock painfully sank backwards to lie down in the chair again. His wings ached so he stretched them out - they were so long and large that the tips ended up curling around the desk and brushing Mycroft's legs. The barber resumed his work, oblivious to the uncomfortable expression that had settled on his employer's face.

"Sherlock. I am glad you are safe, no matter what you entice yourself to think," Mycroft told his brother quietly, now writing notes on the file. "You may serve The Lord now, but you are still my brother."

"Ugh, sentiment," the angel muttered. "Stop, Mycroft, or I might actually think that you care." Sherlock turned his shoulder, which caused his wing to brush against his elder brother's leg. Once he realised, Sherlock retracted his wings slightly to avoid the touching.

Mycroft, fuming, reached out and grabbed the wing in his grip. Whatever he had expected, it wasn't Sherlock crying out in agony and instantly snapping his wings inwards, and Mycroft's insides to writhe.

"Don't do that," Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft leant back and shuffled slightly, folding his arms tight across his chest. He watched the angel with an interested gaze as Sherlock smoothed down the feathers that Mycroft had bent.

"How did they trap you?" Mycroft eventually asked.

"The chains," Sherlock replied shortly. "They had Enochian sigils on them. They knew I was coming." He quickly changed the subject. "I didn't know you spoke Serbian."

Mycroft pursed his lips at the sudden subject change but explained, "I didn't, but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words." He shrugged, smirking slightly. "Took me a couple of hours."

The angel didn't look up from his preening while the barber continued to shave him, silent in the whole conversation. Sherlock finally gave a smug grin and commented, "Hmm – you're slipping."

Smiling tightly, Mycroft tried to suppress his annoyance. "Middle age, brother mine," he said, the irritation only slightly noticeable. "Comes to us all."

Suddenly, the door opened and Anthea – or not-Anthea, as Sherlock had never tried to deduce Mycroft's PA's real name– held up a dark suit and white shirt on a hanger to show to Sherlock, not phased at all by the large black wings. The angel smiled and heaved himself upwards again, with only a small pained grunt this time. The barber finished off, washing the cream off and cleaning up before leaving without a word. Sherlock took the suit and set it down while he viciously rubbed his hair with a towel to dry it. He pulled up his shirt and examined it before pulling it on, along with trousers. The clothes slipped straight over his wings as if they were an illusion, but it was clear they were indeed real when Sherlock flapped them once to get used to the suit again. Anthea turned away and stood just behind Mycroft.

"You'll have to hide them somehow," Mycroft mused, waving a hand towards the quivering masses of raven feathers. "We can't have an angel walking around London with his wings out. You'll be attacked, arrested."

"Of course, don't be stupid Mycroft," Sherlock sighed. "The only reason you can see them now is Grace."

Mycroft paused, confused, before repeating, "Grace?"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "Yes, brother, Grace. I marked your soul with my Grace so you may see a manifestation of my wings. If you were to look upon my true form your eyes would burn out."

"Charming," Mycroft commented, grimacing. "So I presume you will mark Dr Watson also with your Grace so he may see your wings."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "What? No!" He responded quickly, unable to disguise the slight fear in his voice. "I'm not telling him I'm an angel."

"You will tell him, Sherlock," Mycroft warned, eyes piercing, his voice low. "Or I will." When Sherlock did not comment, he continued. "Your decision was one that affected many, Sherlock. Dr Watson has grieved for you the last two years and believes you dead. When you reveal yourself he will question how you survived. Be rational - He deserves an explanation."

"What am I meant to say?" Sherlock spat out. "That the archangel Michael was my guardian angel and when I died, he offered to make me an angel so I could return to life to shut down the rest of Moriarty's network?"

Anthea blinked and gave a small snort. Sherlock pointed to her, raising his eyebrows. Mycroft glared at her and Anthea smirked.

"He'll think I'm insane," Sherlock muttered. "Worse, he'll believe he's hallucinating."

"Sherlock. I thought you deceased but when you came to me and explained the situation, I believed you," Mycroft told him. "And he will not be able to deny the truth when he sees you."

As he turned to a mirror and tucked his shirt into his trousers, Sherlock gave a small rejected nod. "I will tell him, Mycroft, but I will do it on my own terms." Then stating in a brighter tone, "So, terrorist attack...exciting!"

Mycroft crossed his arms seriously. "I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?"

Teasingly, Sherlock spread his wings and checked the mirror. "What do you think of this shirt?" He questioned distractedly.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed, exasperated.

The angel rolled his eyes, tucking his wings in again. "I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft." He briefly glanced at his brother. "Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart. A quick flight over the rooftops should do it. Stretch my wings a bit, get some English air."

Anthea angrily stated, "One of our men died getting this information. All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London – a big one."

Sherlock glanced at her, shrugging his jacket on. "And what about John Watson?"

Anthea threw an exasperated glance towards Mycroft. Mycroft sighed. "John?"

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured. "Have you seen him?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sarcastically said, "Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips." He gestured to Anthea, who handed Sherlock a folder. "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course, as you requested."

Sherlock flicked open the file, wings twitching agitatedly. There were two black and white surveillance photos of John and a detailed report. Sherlock felt a pang in his Grace when he gazed upon the face of his old flat-mate.

"You haven't spoke to Miss Hooper? Tried to prepare him?" Mycroft questioned. "Not one word?"

Sherlock distractedly answered, "No. After all, you wouldn't let me." He shot a glare towards his brother. He turned back to gaze at the picture of John who apparently had a new moustache. Sherlock shook his head. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "'We'?"

Closing the file and dropping it carelessly on the desk, Sherlock scoffed. "He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man." The angel twitched his wings while adjusting his cuffs. "I think I'll surprise John," he decided carefully. "He'll be delighted!"

Smiling cynically, Mycroft crossed his eyes. "You think so?"

"Hmm. I'll pop into Baker Street. Who knows – jump out of a cake." He accompanied this with wild hand moments and a quick beat of both wings, scattering a few black feathers across the office.

"Baker Street?" Mycroft frowned. "He isn't there any more. Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."

Sherlock frowned, looking confused. "What life? I've been away."

Mycroft rolled his eyes without actually rolling them, a great feat for the older brother as Sherlock finished doing up his cuffs.

"Where's he going to be tonight?" the angel questioned curiously.

"How would I know?" Mycroft replied back swiftly and defensively.

Sherlock gave a small snort and strode around his older brother, wing tips brushing Mycroft's back. "You always know."

Mycroft sighed, swinging his umbrella. "He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion ..." He licked his lips, frowning. "Though I prefer the 2001."

Sherlock shrugged his wings. "I think maybe I'll just drop by."

Mycroft regarded his brother seriously. 'You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome."

Sherlock snorted in disbelief. "No it isn't." He stretched his wings once and looked down at his watch, checking the time. "Now, where is it?"

"Where's what?" Mycroft questioned.

"You know what," Sherlock replied, regarding him with serious eyes.

Anthea also knew what, because she immediately appeared in the open doorway holding Sherlock's Belstaff coat. Sherlock smiled with delight, and slid his arms into the sleeves as Anthea lifted it into position. She had even already popped the collar for him.

Anthea gave a dry smile. "Welcome back, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock pulled the collar tips into a better position, saying graciously, "Thank you ..." He turned to face his brother and sarcastically stated, "... blud."

Without a moment's notice he spread his wings and teleported onto the rooftop of a tall building in the centre of London. He gazed over his favourite city and the bustling traffic below and smiled. He stretched his wings to catch the English breeze and breathed.

London. He was home again.

...

**Please review with ideas and such. They really cheer me up from GCSEs.**

**I'm really debating over whether or not I should get Sherlock to tell John and Mary after the restuarant, have Mycroft tell John and Mary and for them both to confront Sherlock feeling betrayed or whether or not when John gets put in the bonfire, Sherlock reveals his wings to Mary and they fly to the Church and Sherlock heals John then they find out.**

**Should Molly find out? When should Lestrade find out? Help! Reviews with ideas please!**


	3. Chapter 3 - Secret Lament

**AN : Here's the next chapter! Another reveal here. Enjoy!**

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><p>The meeting with John did not go as planned. Sherlock certainly hadn't expected John to punch him multiple times. But having free Grace, Sherlock felt no pain and simply flexed his invisible wings and moved on. Then there was Mary Morstan. Sherlock knew she was a good match for John, could sense the strong connection between the two with his Grace, and for some reason it very much displeased him. He felt betrayed. Sherlock decided he would wait until John Watson wasn't trying to punch the living day lights out of him before he told them he was an angel.<p>

After Mary and John drove off in a taxi, leaving Sherlock standing alone on the street, holding a napkin to his injured face, he finally lowered his hand and allowed his Grace to flow freely and heal his injuries. Once they were healed, he spread his wings and teleported quickly over to Baker Street. A thick layer of dust lay over the furniture and feeling uncomfortable, Sherlock waved his hand and cleaned the flat.

Next he flew to St. Bart's. He appeared just as Molly Hooper was unlocking her locker with a sigh. The mirror flashed and caught his reflection. Causing the pathologist to gasp loudly and whip around in shock, pressing back into the lockers, eyes wide.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock greeted her.

"Oh my god," she whispered. "Oh my god - Mycroft wasn't lying - you - you're really alive. You survived."

Sherlock glanced around and answered, "Er, yes, it...appears so."

"No," Molly muttered. "No, no, no...this is wrong...you were dead, you were dead! I did the autopsy, I wrote the report, you had no pulse -"

Seeing that Molly was on the verge of a panic attack, Sherlock quickly darted forwards and grabbed the pathologist's wrist, grasping it tightly and allowing his Grace to flow into her consciousness, filling her mind with bright white light. Molly's eyes rolled up into her head and she keeled. The angel caught her effortlessly and lowered her to ground. Molly's eyelids fluttered and as she gazed up at the bleary face in front of her. Thick dark curls, sharp cheekbones and bright eyes, framed by great black raven feathers spread out either side of the detective's shoulders. Molly moaned quietly, turning away. Was this a dream? A hallucination?

"No, you are not dreaming; no, this is not a hallucination and yes, I am alive and I am an angel."

"No...no...this isn't real..." Molly stuttered.

Sherlock stood and those massive wings unfolded and raven feathers twitched as the angel took her hand and effortlessly pulled Molly to her feet. The pathologist was shaking violently, backing away from Sherlock in terror. The angel watched her cautiously, his strange new aura of Grace hanging in the room. Molly turned quickly for the door but found it locked.

"There is no need to be afraid," Sherlock assured her. "I am not here to harm you."

"Then why are you here?" Molly breathed, her hands trembling.

Sherlock cocked his head and replied, "I came back. I thought you should know. You have helped me many a time. You are worthy to see my at my full glory."

Then Molly swallowed and stepped forwards slowly until she was standing directly in front of Sherlock. She raised one shaky hand and reached towards the soft underside feathers of the wings. She managed to get a few centimetres away before the angel jerked the wing out of reach, frowning down at her.

"Please," Molly whispered, almost pleadingly. "I just - I need you know you're real - that - they are real."

Sherlock took a deep breath before giving a small nod, shaking out his right wing again and pressing it forwards. When Molly's fingers came into contact with the feathers, she gasped, for the wing as real and solid under her fingertips, the soft down tickling her palm. She was able to feel the strong muscles rippling powerfully beneath the skin and every quivering twitch of the feathers she ran through her fingers. She was relieved - Sherlock was here, alive, next to her. And he was an angel.

Molly smiled and pulled gently at the feathers, rubbing them in her palm, but that smile was quickly wiped off when she heard a quiet strangled cry rip itself from Sherlock's lips. She snapped her head up to see the pained expression on the angel's face, eyes screwed shut.

She leapt away. "I'm sorry, I didn't -"

"It's fine," he said in a pained voice. "I'm sorry. It's just - they're sensitive." And then he folded the wings in again against his back, the ruffled feathers smoothing out.

Molly laughed nervously then said, "I knew there was something."

"Something?" Sherlock repeated curiously.

"Yes, it's just... When Mycroft invited me to his office to speak to me, I collected a few samples. Nothing much, just hair, some DNA. Some of the samples I got were of you. And they weren't...entirely...human."

"This body is just a vessel now," Sherlock replied. "My true form would burn your eyes out of your sockets and my true voice would rupture your eardrums."

"So this body is just like some sort of suit?"

"Not essentially, no. As long as I stay on Earth I will stay in the vessel. And of course there is the fact that this body is mine, after all."

"But won't people know you're an angel?"

"No. I can hide my Grace from human eyes."

"How come I can see...those?" She questioned with a wave towards his wings.

Sherlock glanced behind him and the muscles beneath the raven pinions rippled, creating a faint shadow across the room. Molly noted that the wings themselves when spread out did not create a shadow in the sun, only a fading distortion on the ground.

"I placed a minuscule piece of my Grace onto your soul. It protects you enough to allow you to see a manifestation of my true form, in my wings." At Molly's wary glance, Sherlock quickly added, "I will remove it if you feel uncomfortable."

"No," Molly protested sharply. "No, I...don't mind. And I think I prefer seeing you...like this, properly." She took a breath. "So people can only see your wings if you put Grace into them."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "Although the shadow may be seen if I summon the lightning and spread them out."

"How did it happen?" Molly asked quietly.

Sherlock seemed suddenly quiet reluctant. However, he replied hesitantly, "The archangel, Michael, has been my guardian for many years now. He offered to make me into an angel and I accepted. He stationed me here in England. My orders were to destroy anything threatening English Faith. Moriarty's network counted as a danger. But unofficially, I returned to continue my work with John."

Molly's sudden realisation came with a gasp. "Oh my god... John."

"He knows I'm alive."

"Does he know about -"

"No," Sherlock answered sharply and coldly. "And I intend it to stay that way." His hard expression softened and he shuffled uncomfortably. "At least, until I am ready."

Molly nodded understandingly. "What happened?" she asked.

Sherlock turned his head away, muttering, "He punched me. Several times. I do not think he appreciates how hard it was destroying Moriarty's network. Had I informed him earlier that I was alive then it would have inevitably ended in John's death."

Molly inhaled sharply. "He'll come around, Sherlock," she said sympathetically.

Sherlock simply turned away. He gave her a small smile before inclining his head, spreading his wings and taking flight, vanishing from Molly's sight and instead taking turn to great his other old friends.

However, Sherlock could not help but wonder about John. Would he forgive him? It certainly didn't seem like it at the moment. He paused and stood, wings balancing, on the top of Big Ben, illuminated by the bright moon and the blazing lights of the city below him.

He raised his head and muttered, "Michael, please, just... give me sign, any sign. I need to know. Will John forgive me? Will he know of my Grace? Please, I just...really need some guidance right now. And yes, I just did admit that I need some help, insane as it is. I just need to know, brother."

Instead of getting a reply, his phone instead began to ring. Sighing, Sherlock yanked it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. Rolling his eyes, he answered and snapped, "What is it, Mycroft?"

"I've received a concerned and alarmed call from the PM who seems to be delusioned that you are standing on top of Big Ben."

Sherlock looked down at the Houses of Parliament and said, in a high-pitched but mocking voice, "Well, he must be mistaken. I am certainly not standing on top of Big Ben."

Mycroft sighed. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced upwards at the sky stained orange with the lights of the city below him. "Seeking guidance from my brothers."

"I don't know whether to be offended you did not contact me first or delighted you have finally asked for help."

Sherlock snorted. "Help as in the spiritual sense, brother mine. John did not take well to the discovery that I am alive."

"Have you told him yet about Michael? About Grace? About this?"

Sherlock growled quietly. "No, not yet." He took a deep breath and then asked, "What do you know about Mary Morstan?"

"John Watson's girlfriend? Ah, yes, I was wondering when you would find out."

"Mycroft," Sherlock snarled. "I need to know whether she can be trusted."

There was a moment's silence from Mycroft's side and then a sharp, "Figure it out yourself, Sherlock. Now, I have a meeting with the Foreign Office in twenty seven minutes. Goodbye, Sherlock."

The phone chimed and Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket. He spread his wings again and let the wind catch his feathers, ruffling his pinions and placing a sense of calm over the angel.

The city lights were shining bright like twinkling stars. The haze of the moon hung over the people like a beacon of hope. You have to fall to learn to fly.

* * *

><p>Sherlock debated telling John and Mary over the next few days. He even considered telling Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. But no, he could not. He would not tell the DI and his landlady before he told John, and he would not tell John before he was ready. Mycroft was annoying as usual. Constantly concerned about the terrorists, only coming to see the angel when he needed an update or information. Sherlock managed to convince him to play deductions, but nothing more. Molly was helpful. She had realised that the angel was obviously missing his old flatmate, and had helped him out on a few cases. She was, of course, engaged. So Sherlock knew it wouldn't last forever. So he had hugged her, wrapped his wings around her shoulders in a warm embrace of gratitude and thanks for what she had done for him; told her that after everything, she was the one person who mattered to him most. And then there was Anderson, trying to attract him by faking a death. He'd have to have a word with him later.<p>

Sherlock was lounging in 221b, wings flayed out over the sofa, when he sensed Mary Morstan's fear and worry appear in the street with his Grace. He stood up immediately, fish and chips in hand.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson," Mary's frantic voice said, pushing her way past desperately. "Sorry – I-I think someone's got John – John Watson."

Sherlock – still in his coat, since he hadn't bothered to talk it off, and holding a bag of chips just inside the door – turned and revealed himself in the doorway, frowning, his heart pounding. Someone had John.

Mrs Hudson hurried after her. "Hang on! Who are you?"

Mary stopped partway up the stairs and turned back to her. "Oh, I'm his fiancée."

Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly. "Ah!"

Sherlock's wings flared as Mary rushed up towards him. "Mary? What's wrong?"

Mary pulled her phone and pushed it into Sherlock's hand. "Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it's not. It's a skip-code."

Sherlock gazed at her closely. A skip-code? How did she know about that? His wings rustled discontentedly, but he then turned his attention to her phone as she flicked through the first part of the message:

_Save souls now!_

_John or James Watson?_

"First word, then every third," Sherlock murmured. "Save ... John ... Watson."

Mary pulled up the rest of the message almost immediately after that. Sherlock's eyes flashed over the words, his Grace's light pulsing in time with his heart.

_Saint or Sinner?_

_James or John?_

_The more is Less?_

The unimportant words seemed to fade before Sherlock's eyes, leaving just the vital ones and as he read them, his Grace flared in anger and fear and worry for the man who was his reason for being alive in the first place.

_Saint James The Less_

Sherlock dropped his chips and urgently shouted, "Now!"

He raced down the stairs with Mary following close behind. His wings crackled with barely suppressed power and the angel had to reel back his Grace to avoid accidentally revealing the shadows of his wings to Mary. He leapt out the door, glancing around frantically.

"Where are we going?" Mary asked him urgently.

"St James the Less," Sherlock replied absentmindedly, too focused on the fact that John was in danger to respond fast enough. "It's a church. Twenty minutes by car."

Sherlock immediately tried teleporting, but was blocked. It was like a shove to his chest, forcing him back. He growled in frustration, pelting out into the street.

"Of course, it's damn church, there're sigils up, no teleporting in." He whipped around, pointing at Mary. "Did you drive here?"

"Er, yes," Mary answered, looking confused as Sherlock mentioned teleporting.

Sherlock paced about in the middle of the road, shouting angrily, "It's too slow. It's too slow."

He was oblivious to the approach of a car, which swerved around him, the driver blaring his horn and the wind ruffling his wings. He needed to get to John. Quickly. No cars, no motorbikes, and teleporting was out. There was only one option left. Flight. But that would mean revealing his wings to Mary, and then to John.

"No time, no time!" He yelled. He looked upwards and shouted furiously, "Michael, what should I do? Help me, brother!"

Mary looked frantic but alarmed. "Sherlock, what are we waiting for? What the hell are you doing? What do you mean?"

Sherlock whipped around, hands flailing and grabbing his head. He didn't have time. He didn't have enough time! Finally, he just grabbed Mary's wrist and pulled her towards him, gazing at her. Deductions flew through his mind, and the only bad thing was liar, and most people were liars anyway.

"Mary, I need you to trust me," Sherlock told her seriously. "And I need to know if I can trust you."

"You can trust me," Mary said.

"No, I need a reason. Some sort of anchor, if this goes wrong," Sherlock muttered frustratedly, running a hand through his dark curls.

Mary stared at him then stated quietly, "John chose me."

And that was enough, because damn Sherlock trusted John's judgement and if John trusted Mary then damn he should too. Sherlock stepped back and, reaching with two fingers, he tapped Mary on the forehead, allowing his Grace to flow see lesson into her, attaching and weaving into her soul, pure bright light that shone.

Mary stared up at him amazement as Sherlock flared his wings, great black limbs spreading out, the raven pinions glowing with the power of his Grace, name great strikes of lightning bolted down onto the pavement, creating spark. All the lamp posts' bulbs exploded and the lights in the flats flickered.

Sherlock flapped his great wings once, sending cold air rushing into Mary's face. "Hold onto me."

* * *

><p><strong>AN : Please review! I'm aiming to get up to at least 25. Please please review, even if it's just to say hi. I really want to know your opinions and ideas and they really cheer me up. I just had three essays to complete and need some happy time. Please review!<strong>

**Also, need ideas and suggestions about how Mrs Hudson and Lestrade will find out. I'm thinking that the Yard will find out because a case accidentally leads them into angelic-demonic battlegrounds and Sherlock is forced to fight to protect them and maybe Mrs Hudson catches him preening in 221b. Please suggest!**


	4. Chapter 4 - Revelations

**AN: Hey guys, sorry this is late. We've got more reveals in this chapter... EXCITEMENT.**

**Also. Let's play spot the Supernatural quote.**

**Quite a long chapter, so please remember to REVIEW at the end!**

* * *

><p>"Oh my god..." Mary breathed, her eye as round as plates. "You're...what the hell...what are you?" she managed to choke out after a minute, clutching her coat tighter around her to try and stop her shaking.<p>

Sherlock shook his head and held out his hand to her. "No time to explain. Short version, I really did die two years ago and I was transformed into an angel by the archangel Michael. Now, come on, it's much faster to fly than by car, and we need to get to John!"

Mary was still trembling but she took a step forwards, somewhat hesitantly. Sherlock spread his wings out to full span, ignoring Mary's awed gasp and motioned for her to climb onto his back, in between his shoulder blades. Mary quickly jumped onto his back, settling in the middle of both wings, one hand hesitantly reaching out to touch the raven feathers. Sherlock took her weight like it was nothing at all to bear - he could easily lift a ton with his new angel strength. But it became clear that carrying an extra passenger during flight was going to be a hindrance to his speed and his durability.

"Mary, you need to hold on very tightly," Sherlock warned her. "I do not wish for you to fall to your death."

"Believe me, neither do I," the woman said into his ear.

Sherlock tested the weight of his wings before he began to beat his great black appendages in sync, creating cold gusts of wind as he swept himself upwards. With one fluid movement, he curled his whole body like a cat and leapt into the air, shooting up us above the buildings and quickly coming to a steady pace, gliding along on warm thermal currents, his mind palace setting his internal compass to Saint James the Less, the church where he would find John.

Mary had buried her head in the back of his neck and wrapped her arms tightly a round his torso, refusing to let go in sheer terror, her grip starting to hurt it was so tight. The wind was whipping the pair's hair into their faces, their clothes plastered against them, and while Sherlock could not feel the biting cold, Mary was shivering.

In the angel's mind, he was calculating how long it will take to get to St James the Less Church. Currently the journey would take 10 minutes. Sherlock growled quietly under his breath and quickly shifted currents, giving two great beats to wing up to a higher, faster air current. Mary squeaked and held on even tighter. Mary's phone sounded a text alert and she struggled to get it out while anchoring herself to Sherlock's body with one arm. It read:

Getting warmer Mr Holmes

You have about ten minutes.

Mary relayed the message, shouting it because of the loud rush of wind past their ears, and Sherlock gave another quick beat of his wings to try and control his anger.

"What does it mean?" Mary yelled, her blonde hair being blown into her eyes as she clutched her phone in her hands around the angel's neck. "What are they going to do to him?"

Sherlock shook his head, gazing down at the lights of the great city below as he flapped his wings, muscles rippling. "I don't know."

8 minutes

And counting...

He snarled and dived forwards, falling a few metres causing Mary scream before pulling up short, wings spread out to full span as he soared over the rooftops, coat lapping at his knees. The angel scanned the roads once before quickening his flight speed with a few adjustments to his flight feathers.

"Hold on!" Sherlock shouted before with several great beats of his wings he quickened his speed by a third. He could already feel his vessel's energy running out and stretching onto his reserves. As soon as the body was out of energy, he would have to use his Grace and risk injuring his true form.

"Sherlock!" Mary shouted, using one arm to stretch around and show him the next message sent while he was changing course.

Better hurry

things are

hotting up here...

"Almost there, Mary," he yelled.

Suddenly a barrier slammed into him, forcing him to pull up short, hovering. He quickly searched for the cause. Ah. He was entering the church's boundaries. He couldn't enter the area before the protective sigils were broken or new ones were placed. Growling, he quickly landed and helped Mary off his back.

"Why did we stop?" Mary asked, alarmed and worried.

Sherlock shook his head and rested his hands on his knees, trying to gain back vital energy for his vessel. "I can't enter the church boundaries. All the churches of London have protective sigils stopping demons and angels from entering."

"How do we get in?" Mary questioned, suddenly a lot more confident.

"You can get in perfectly fine," Sherlock told her. "Here, I need you to place this sigil within the boundaries, and quickly!" He placed his hand on her forehead and transferred the knowledge.

She blinked before nodding, reaching her hand out. Sherlock passed over his angel blade without hesitation. The sigil needed to be done in human blood. If Mary was willing, then he wasn't going to argue. She quickly stepped over the boundaries and Sherlock winced as it shimmered slightly, sensing the angel Grace inside of her. Mary sliced her hand with a grimace and began painting the sigil onto the wall sweeps and curves of bright crimson. Mary's phone in Sherlock's hand bleeped.

Stay of execution.

you've got two

more minutes...

"Mary -"

"I'm doing it! Don't rush me!"

Sherlock's feathers ruffled in agitation. "Two minutes!"

"I said don't rush me!"

Her blood glided over the wall in ancient intricate pattern, a five pointed star and circle lined with strong red patterns of Enochian lettering. Sherlock's Grace inside of her was a shining pinprick of light inside of her head, the knowledge pouring out and out and out into her mind, into her hands. Finally the barrier released and vanished. Without a word, blood and Grace pounding, Sherlock grabbed Mary under the arms and launched upwards, his wings beating so fast they were a black blur. Soon they were swooping towards the church where the beginnings of a bonfire lay with crowds of people around it, laughing and playing with sparklers.

What a shame

Mr Holmes.

John is quite a Guy!

"What does it mean?" Mary shouted.

Sherlock gasped as the bonfire lit up in flames, the figure on top of it basked in orange light; the fire flickered and licked up the wood covered in gasoline and Sherlock could sense the soul in danger, situated in the centre of the fire... John. Ebbing, in pain, flickering, afraid and terrified and agonised.

"Oh Father," he breathed. He landed with a thump, dropping Mary and sprinting towards the fire, wings flared out behind him. "Move!" He screamed at the families, who were now hearing the cries from the bonfire.

"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed, diving towards the flames and throwing wood and scraps aside, desperately searching. "JOHN!"

"Help!" came the weak, cracked reply, muffled by the roaring of fire.

Mary was there, helping him and Sherlock concentrated, pulling on his Grace and searching for the tortured soul, finding it surrounded in fear and agony and horror. He ripped the scraps aside and finally saw the familiar ash-covered wool jumper. He dragged his old flatmate's limp from from the bonfire, out of the flames and onto the ground. John stared up at him with bleary, dazed eyes. His exposed skin was glowing bright red from heat exposure. The angel heard the heartbroken sob from Mary behind him.

"John?" Sherlock asked gently, slapping his face slightly, his voice breaking. His Grace was ebbing and throbbing in pain and in exhaustion but he hardly cared. "Hey, John..."

John's eyes slipped shut as he passed out. Sherlock gathered him in his arms, wrapping his wings around the man laying unconscious in his grasp, soothed by his Grace, and reached out for Mary's arm. With the sigils down, he gathered his Grace and managed to teleport the three of them back into the living room of Baker Street. Immediately his knees gave out and he fell to the floor in exhaustion, but he and Mary dragged John to Sherlock's bedroom and settled him on the bed. Sherlock's fingers danced over the burns and he gazed up at Mary with tired eyes.

"I need your permission," he said, voice slurred slightly.

Mary blinked in confusion. "Permission?"

"Yes, to heal him," Sherlock replied, his wings sagging against his back, drooping onto the bed. A few stray raven feathers scattered the floorboards. "I need his permission, but since John's unconscious, you can pass as his next of kin since you're engaged."

"We're not actually -"

"Mary," Sherlock said, bowing his head, while raising one eyebrow, his voice telling her not to argue.

She hesitated. "Heal him? You can actually do that?"

"Yes. It involves allowing my Grace to filter through his body to repair cells before removing it. Though I should most probably leave a minuscule piece attached to him if he is to see my wings."

"Okay. Just...be careful." Mary stepped aside, looking on warily.

Sherlock exhaustedly pulled on his Grace and forced the energy to seep into John, the angry red burns vanishing with repaired cells replacing it with new skin, and he seemed to breath a lot easier as well. When Sherlock took his hands off of him, he tipped over to the side, his eyes slipping shut. After flying with a passenger, teleporting three people and healing injuries, his Grace was exhausted and needed to be replenished. He thought he might pass out.

"Come on, Sherlock," Mary said gently, helping him rise, keeping a wary eye on his sagging wings as she guided him to the living room sofa.

Sherlock collapsed down on it on his front and buried his face in a pillow, his wings splayed out onto the floor and over the back of the sofa, pressed up against his back and the wall exhaustedly. He felt hands removing his coat and his socks and shoes, but he only made a small grateful noise, barely audible. Mary even helped place his wings in more comfortable positions, apologising heartily when his feathers caught and he shuddered.

"I'm going to pass out now," Sherlock mumbled, turning his head slightly out of the coolness of the pillow to address Mary. "Don't wake me up; my Grace is trying to replenish itself and it's better if I'm unconscious to gain direct access to the Axis Mundi to siphon off the energy from the souls."

"That's alright, Sherlock. Rest, I'll take care of John. Though I expect an explanation later."

"Yes, I thought you might..." He took a deep breath then asked in a small voice, "Does John hate me?" He knew he sounded childish asking, but he had to.

"No, Sherlock. I don't think he could ever hate you. In fact I think he was walking here to speak to you when he got kidnapped."

"'Kay," the angel murmured. "Thank you."

He took a quick glance at the clock. Only ten. He should be fine. He turned and rustled his feathers, smoothing them down before allowing his Grace to settle and rest at the back of his vessel, slipping into blessed unconsciousness and curling up into the warm darkness.

...

When the angel awoke again it was to turn and find John Watson staring at him from across the room, seated in his own chair. Mary was in the kitchen trying to navigate around test tubes and conical flasks and ominous liquids while making tea. Sherlock glanced outside. It was still dark out. A glance at his clock revealed it to be nearly midnight. 23. 32 to be precise. He had only gained around two hours of 'sleep'. John was still staring.

Sherlock turned away and curled up, face in pillow once again. His Grace still felt weak, still exhausted, not fully replenished. He needed another few hours of unconsciousness to get up to full power once more. As he curled up like a cat, his flight feathers twitched and the muscles spasmed once, causing John to startle and jump in surprise. Sherlock smiled into his pillow. John was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, still staring. Mary came back into the living room, passing John a cup of strong tea and setting one down on the floor next to Sherlock, before settling in Sherlock's chair opposite John.

"We know you're awake, Sherlock."

"Go away," he muttered. "My Grace still needs replenishing. I told you not to wake me up."

"Sherlock..."

John's voice had a small stutter in it. The angel sighed and shifted his wings. He sat up slowly, not meeting either humans' eyes. John and Mary glanced each other before gazing at him silently, waiting for some kind of explanation.

"Sherlock..." John said. "Do you want to start by telling me what the bloody hell is going on?!"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered. "I know I should have told you."

"Yeah, you should have told me! You should have told me ages ago, you stupid, masochistic, cold-hearted bastard -''

"JOHN," Mary said sharply, because with every word Sherlock had been shrinking back, ending up curled up, knees tucked into his chest and wings wrapped around him like a blanket, head buried in the mass of black feathers.

John inhaled and stared at his knees. "I just... I want to know what is going on...and I want to know now."

"I died," Sherlock said in a small voice, head appearing out of the raven feathers and his eyes flashing.

"What?"

"When I jumped off of Bart's," Sherlock explained. He tried to keep the shake out of his refused to show emotion. "I really did die. What I told you in the restaurant, that I faked my death... It's all fake. Molly thought I was dead too. Mycroft as well."

"You...but you're still alive. You're here. You're alive," John said, confused.

"John, you know very well what I am. I am far from human. I am far from alive."

"You're an angel."

Silence.

"Yes," Sherlock finally answered. "I am."

"Have you always been?" John questioned, with hidden anger.

"No. Only since Bart's."

"So. For two years."

"Yes."

Silence again. Then John looked up and asked slowly, "How?"

"It's...complicated."

"We have all night," Mary replied calmly.

Sherlock turned to her with narrowed eyes. "Very complicated."

"We're not stupid," John said, his voice tinted with fury. "Stop treating us like we are. We have the right to know, Sherlock. I watched you jump off that bloody building. Now I find out you're an angel. I have the right to know how."

Sherlock turned away, huffing in irritation. "That's what Mycroft said," he muttered.

"Mycroft?" Mary questioned.

"His brother," John replied. "So Mycroft knew, about all of this."

"Yes, obviously. He insisted that I reveal myself to you. He said it would be rational, considering the circumstances." Sherlock sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"First of all, how."

"Michael. The head archangel. He's been my guardian angel for a few years now. Since the pool actually. Heaven's forces recognised Moriarty as a major threat. When I died, he gave me to chance to convert. My soul was transformed into Grace and he gave me my wings." To prove his point, Sherlock fanned them, a few dark feathers falling to the floor again. "He stationed me on Earth."

"So what have you been doing for the last two years?"

Sherlock frowned. "I told you. I was shutting down Moriarty's network."

"So now the angels care about him?"

"They care if he's dead."

John took a deep breath. "Were you ever planning on telling me?"

"Truthfully? No."

John leapt up and punched him. Sherlock barely felt the blow, but his vessel's nose started to bleed. John was shouting words at him furiously and Mary was trying to rein him back in.

"John! You can't punch an angel!"

"I didn't punch an angel! I punched a dick!"

"Will everybody just calm down!" Mary demanded.

Sherlock glanced away from John while the fuming man stepped back and stormed back to his chair. The angel's wings were tucked tightly against his frame and his eyes were wary and untrusting. Mary now appeared guilty, embarrassed that her fiancée had attacked an angel, in said angel's home.

"Okay," Mary said cautiously. "This is good. We're talking at least."

John was breathing deeply, trying to get his temper under control. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gun. The angel immediately tensed and flinched backwards, eyes wide. But John just placed the gun down on the table. In return, Sherlock drew his angel blade and set it down next to the gun.

"Alright then," Mary said slowly. "Now, Sherlock, why don't you explain to us why you weren't planning on telling us?"

Sherlock shook his head but grudgingly said, "I was not sure that after the two years I spent abroad I would come back and find the man I had trusted. I feared you too had been corrupted by Moriarty's influence. There was also the factor that if I had told you, both of you would be dead. While Moriarty's network was still in operation, you were in danger. I had to eliminate the threat."

"I can protect myself," John snapped.

And Sherlock was angry. Because though he was a soldier, John was vulnerable and had been a target for Moriarty. "I'm sure that's what you told the assassin meant to kill you if I didn't jump off of that building," Sherlock snarled, his wings spreading out menacingly.

John made a strangled noise. "What?"

Sherlock sighed before explaining in a calmer, quieter voice, "You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would have been killed if I hadn't jumped off St. Bart's."

"So you martyred yourself?" Mary said, frowning. "Nobody likes martyrs, Sherlock."

"That doesn't matter. I did what had to done, and now it's in the past," Sherlock growled in a clipped tone. "If you don't want me here, then I will return to my superiors and Heaven." He stood and flapped his wings twice, ready to take off and leap onto the Axis Mundi.

"NO!" John shouted, and it wasn't angry, more panicked and desperate. "Don't... Sherlock, don't go. Please. You've only just got back after two years that I thought you were dead. Don't go now."

"You clearly despise my presence in your life," Sherlock told him bitterly, casting a few raven feathers onto the floor. "Your increased heart rate and high blood-pressure as well as the sweating in your left hand and twitching of your right hand's fingers inform me that you are withholding the urge to hurt me. Your soul is tormented and furious. I think it would be best for both of us if I removed myself now."

John was still tense, but questioned curiously, "My soul?"

"Yes, your soul," Sherlock said, frustrated. "It's pulsing. Bright. Ravenous for adrenalin. You're obviously itching to punch something. May I suggest the throw pillows?" He picked one up and passed it to his dumbfounded colleague.

"No, I mean..." John shook his head. "You can see it?"

"I thought it was fairly self-explanatory."

"You can see souls. You can see my soul." Sherlock could see the tension in his shoulders and the now more violent twitching of his right hand's fingers and the frown lines around his eyes and forehead.

"I won't look if you don't like it," he murmured, turning away.

"Why...why wouldn't I like it?" John asked, and he sounded slightly confused.

"Because a human soul allows me to see everything about them. Their emotions, their thoughts, their memories. By simply looking, John. It's quite intrusive. Which is why normally I force myself not to see the soul, but examine the person instead. You, however..." The angel gave a small smile. "You are an open book. Your soul is clear to see. Your eyes betray you."

John was staring. Not glaring or glowering. There was no hatred in his gaze. Maybe curiosity, maybe slight shock and anger and concern, but no hatred. Mary too. She was more uneasy than angry. Uneasy as she glanced between her fiancé and the angel, who were battling before her with spiteful words and lies.

"Don't go, okay?" John finally said. "I lost you once and I can't lose you again."

The clock struck midnight. Chimes rang through the silent flat, and on the last sharp chime, Sherlock folded and unfolded his wings uneasily, black feathers rustling and shining and bristling.

"It's late," he said sharply. "You two should return home. We can continue this conversation later on. I will teleport you." He lifted his hands to lay them on John and Mary's shoulders, but John brushed his hands away, stepping back, still wary.

"John, it's okay," Mary told him, giving a reassuring smile. She shot a gracious and understanding look towards the angel. "How do you think we got from the church to here in under two seconds?"

"Teleportation?" John asked hesitantly. He looked between Sherlock and Mary. "If that how you got to the church so quickly?"

Sherlock froze, wings becoming still, and he whipped his head around to gaze at Mary, whose mouth was now opening and closing as if she didn't have the words. Sherlock had to admit, he was curious of what Mary was going to tell John, how she was going to explain how they crossed London in under ten minutes.

"We flew," Mary finally confessed, putting it simply and bluntly. "Sherlock flew us there."

"You can fly?" John was shocked, surprised and amazed all at the same time.

"The wings aren't just for decoration, you know," Sherlock said, amused, flaring them out to half-span. "Angels do fly. Though it is very like teleportation. We fly faster than the speed of light, so to human vision we simply vanish and appear." He took a deep breath. "However, there are means to slow us down. Protective sigils around the church forced me to fly at the speed perhaps of a peregrine falcon or black eagle. We were able to cross London by using thermal currents that pass through the city."

"That is...quite extraordinary," John finally commented. "Can I...?" He reached a hand out to touch the feathers and when Sherlock tensed, he recoiled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -"

"I did not protest, John," Sherlock sighed.

He turned and spread his wings out, perhaps to three-quarter span, as the room was too small to accommodate the sheer width and length of his dove and sixth limbs. Unlike Molly and Mary's hesitate brushes, John had firm hands, running them down the feathers and bone. It was only when John stepped back to grab a pen and started writing notes that Sherlock realised what was going on.

"John, are you examining my wings?" He asked incredulously.

John blushed, looking up from his estimated measurements and quick sketch. "It isn't everyday one gets to see angel wings you know. They're interesting."

"I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't mind us taking some measurements and data," Mary quipped, before meeting Sherlock's eyes somewhat surely. "Right?"

"You are quite correct," Sherlock agreed. "It would be fascinating to compare my own wings to those of my garrison."

"It's really late, and we have work tomorrow," Mary said, pulling at John's jacket. "Come on. You can examine Sherlock's wings the next time we see him."

John's hands vanished and Sherlock turned again. He glanced at Mary for the go-ahead and when she nodded he stepped forwards and raised his hands to their foreheads.

"Goodbye John, for now," he said quietly.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," John replied, equally quiet. "And I'm glad you told me. We can work this out."

"Yes," Sherlock said, and he was quite sure they could.

His fingertips met their foreheads and they vanished, back to John and Mary's apartment. As soon as they were gone, Sherlock heaved a sigh and collapsed back down on the sofa, curling up and resting his wings over him. His Grace still needed replenishing, but he felt happy, dazed and overall pleased with the outcome of John and Mary's knowing of his Grace.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt hope once again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry if characters are OOC. Love your comments and reviews, they really lift me! Please review!<strong>

**Also still taking case suggestions. And need ideas for my muse on how Keatrade and Mrs Hudson find out...**

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**Please review and thanks for reading!**


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